{"id":151205,"date":"2021-03-02T13:30:32","date_gmt":"2021-03-02T18:30:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=151205"},"modified":"2021-03-02T14:25:11","modified_gmt":"2021-03-02T19:25:11","slug":"redux-this-cannot-be-the-worst-of-my-days","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/03\/02\/redux-this-cannot-be-the-worst-of-my-days\/","title":{"rendered":"Redux: This Cannot Be the Worst of My Days"},"content":{"rendered":"

Every week, the editors of\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review\u00a0lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine\u2019s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by\u00a0signing up for the Redux newsletter<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n
\n
\"\"<\/a>

Italo Calvino.<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Spring may be around the corner, but this week, we\u2019re taking one last look at winter. Read on for Italo Calvino\u2019s Art of Fiction interview<\/a>, Deborah Love\u2019s story \u201cOne Winter<\/a>,\u201d and Rohan Chhetri\u2019s poem \u201cNew Delhi in Winter<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n

If you enjoy these free interviews, stories, and poems, why not\u00a0subscribe<\/a>\u00a0to\u00a0The Paris Review<\/em>? You\u2019ll also get four new issues of the quarterly delivered straight to your door.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Italo Calvino, The Art of Fiction No. 130<\/a>
\nIssue no. 124 (Fall 1992)<\/em><\/p>\n

By then I had reached a level of obsession with structure such that I almost became crazy about it. It can be said about If on a Winter\u2019s Night a Traveler<\/em> that it could not have existed without a very precise, very articulated structure. I believe I have succeeded in this, which gives me a great satisfaction. Of course, all this kind of effort should not concern the reader at all. The important thing is to enjoy reading my book, independently of the work I have put into it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Hermann Dischler, Abendliche Winterlandschaft mit Tannen<\/em>, 1907, oil on canvas, 7 x 10 3\/4″. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

One Winter<\/a>
\nBy Deborah Love
\nIssue no. 50 (Fall 1970)<\/em><\/p>\n

This morning the snow is falling again. It has already filled in the ruts in the drive. The snow makes me happy. Under it tired landscapes concede, errors disappear, and sin is borne under, the whiteness an absolute of infinite possible beginnings.<\/p>\n

The baby is still asleep and I wander about the house looking out of the windows. From the kitchen I can see the fields, which go on and on like a vast white sea glazed by sunlight. A pattern of weather has set in. The morning clears and we can watch the spot of sun breaking the gray surround. By early afternoon it closes in again and the gray becomes dotted with white as the snow begins to fail. When the snow is falling the temperature rises as high as 20\u00b0 but by late afternoon the sky clears and it drops again to zero.<\/p>\n

In these warm interludes I take the baby out. She walks over the crust while I break through and flounder in the drifts. It frightens me to imagine I will not be able to climb out of my own footshafts. There I will thrash and make deeper and deeper the cave I am creating, while the baby crawls away to freeze and die.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Carl Sk\u00e5nberg, Vinterlandskap i skymning<\/em>, 1880, oil on canvas, 26 3\/4 x 49 1\/8″. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

New Delhi in Winter<\/a>
\nBy Rohan Chhetri
\nIssue no. 234 (Fall 2020)<\/em><\/p>\n

Those mornings in the last days of December,
\nas the smog deepened over the mausoleum
\n& the ghost of the emperor\u2019s first wife
\nlingered about the four gardens, weeping
\nover her dead child
\nuntil a solitary jogger tore the curtain of fog
\nwith a flashlight, making her flee
\nthrough a chink in the heavy lid of the small red tomb,
\nI rose at dawn, washed my face with water
\ncold as needles & went to work, stomach taut
\nas deerskin stretched over the seat of a chair.
\nOn the terrace garden above my office,
\nI drank coffee & smoked a long cigarette
\nas something unnameable loosened its grip on my neck.
\nI remember thinking then, This cannot be
\nthe worst of my days, but mostly I remember
\nmyself in some variation of afraid.
\nWhy, I can\u2019t tell \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

And to read more from the\u00a0<\/em>Paris Review\u00a0archives, make sure to\u00a0subscribe<\/a>! In addition to four print issues per year, you\u2019ll also receive complete digital access to our sixty-eight years\u2019 worth of archives.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, we\u2019ve lowered the paywall on Italo Calvino\u2019s Art of Fiction interview, a short story by Deborah Love, and a poem by Rohan Chhetri.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[31006],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-151205","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-redux"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nRedux: This Cannot Be the Worst of My Days by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, we\u2019ve lowered the paywall on Italo Calvino\u2019s Art of Fiction interview, a short story by Deborah Love, and a poem by Rohan Chhetri.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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